Chapter 6
Chapter Six
FINN
The rain starts at dawn, fat drops drumming against my tent.
Not unexpected for early summer in the Alaskan mountains.
I’ve studied the weather patterns enough to know the signs—the drop in temperature, the wind shift, the way the clouds stacked up over the western peaks last night.
I pull on my rain gear before stepping outside to assess our situation.
The campsite is a slick mess—everything soaked within minutes.
Elliott emerges from his tent, rain pelting his inadequate jacket. “Is this going to be a problem?”
“Depends on how long it lasts,” I say, assessing the heavy clouds. “Seems settled in.”
“We’re scheduled to film at the ridge overlook today. Can we still make that work?”
I nod. “We can reach it. Whether you’ll make out anything through this is another question.”
Slowly, the rest of the crew emerge, hunched against the rain, huddled together under a hastily erected tarp. No sign of Lena yet .
“Someone should check on our star,” Elliott says, directing his attention to her tent.
I trudge across the soggy ground and call her name outside the tent flap. No response. I try again, louder.
“I’m awake,” she finally answers, her voice rough with sleep. “Is it raining?”
“Has been for hours,” I say. “We need to break camp soon if we’re making the ridge today.”
A rustle of movement, then her head appears through the tent opening. Her hair sticks out in several directions, her eyes puffy. When she registers the downpour, her expression sinks. “Seriously?”
“Welcome to Alaska,” I say. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
No campfire this morning. We huddle under tarps, eating cold protein bars and passing around a water bottle.
Lena sits silent, wrapped in her rain jacket, looking miserable but making no complaints.
That surprises me. I’d expected dramatic protests about the weather, filming conditions, anything.
Instead, she stares straight ahead, shoulders tight.
“We’ll reach a more sheltered area by midday,” I say as we pack up the soaked tents. “The forest is thicker there. Less exposed to the elements.”
Elliott approaches with his clipboard sealed inside a plastic bag. “Change of plans. We want to capture Lena gathering edible plants in the clearing west of here before heading to the ridge.”
“In this weather?” I indicate the driving rain.
“Perfect authenticity,” Elliott says. “Survival skills in adverse conditions.”
Lena joins us, her pack secured, rain jacket zipped to her chin. “What’s the plan?”
“We’ll start with the western field,” Elliott says. “Need footage of you gathering plants.”
“In a monsoon? ”
“Dramatic backdrop,” he says, unaffected by her skepticism. “The audience will love witnessing you persevere through natural challenges.”
We set off single file through the glistening forest. Rain slickens every surface, making the trail treacherous.
The crew struggles with their equipment, stopping every few minutes to wipe lenses and adjust protective covers.
Lena walks directly behind me, following my footsteps with careful precision.
Through the trees, I can see the open expanse—a wide stretch of tall grasses and wildflowers, now bent low under the weight of the rain. No shelter here. We’ll be completely exposed.
“Perfect!” Elliott declares, directing the camera operators into position.
Lena pulls her hood tighter around her face. “What am I supposed to gather in this?”
“I’ll show you,” I say, leading her into the grassland.
Despite the downpour, several edible plants remain identifiable—wild onions, fireweed shoots, young ferns that will taste like asparagus when cooked.
I point them out, demonstrating proper harvesting techniques while the cameras roll.
Lena listens attentively, repeating my motions with unexpected skill.
When she thinks I’m not looking, she names each plant under her breath as she gathers it.
Not only the common names, but scientific ones.
An hour into filming, the rain intensifies. Water streams from the brim of my hat, and even quality rain gear has its limits. Lena’s hands are red from cold and pruned from the constant wet as she digs for edible roots.
“We need enough for a proper segment,” Elliott calls when I suggest wrapping up. “Twenty more minutes!”
The terrain slopes gently downward toward its northern edge, where the ground drops more steeply into a ravine. As we work our way in that direction, I keep a careful eye on our proximity to the edge. The rain has turned much of the field to slick mud.
“Stay back from the edge,” I warn, aware the soil grows increasingly unstable. “Footing isn’t reliable.”
Lena nods, but Elliott directs her closer to get better framing against the dramatic backdrop of mountains disappearing into mist. “We need you right at this spot,” he insists, pointing to an area near the edge where the ground drops away. “The composition is perfect.”
Damn fool. She could fall. “That’s too close!”
“It’ll be fine,” Elliott dismisses. “Quick shot, then we’re done.”
Lena steps carefully to the spot he points to, clutching her basket of gathered plants. The camera operator circles, capturing her from multiple angles while rain courses down her face. She forces a game expression for the shot, playing her role despite the miserable conditions.
That’s when it happens. The rain-saturated soil gives way beneath her right foot. One moment she stands posing for the camera, the next, her leg disappears into a sudden depression, throwing her off balance. The basket flies from her hands as she pitches sideways, sliding toward the ravine edge.
I move without thinking, lunging across the muddy ground.
My hand closes around her arm as her body goes over the edge, the abrupt weight nearly pulling me down after her.
My boots dig into the mud as I brace against her fall.
Lena dangles halfway down the steep incline, clutching my arm with both hands, her rain jacket snagged on protruding rocks.
Below her, the slope grows steeper, dropping twenty feet to a rain-swollen creek.
“Don’t move,” I say, shifting my weight to better anchor myself. “I’ve got you. ”
Fear has wiped the camera-ready expression from her face. This is no performance.
“Pull me up,” she says, voice tight.
I reposition, planting my feet more securely, and begin hauling her upward. The mud makes everything treacherous. Damn it, she’s slipping. Dig in. Pull. Harder. Her rain-slick jacket slips in my grasp.
Elliott and one of the crew members hurry to my side, reaching down to help. Together, we pull Lena back onto level ground. She collapses onto the wet grass, breathing hard.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, checking for injuries.
She shakes her head, then winces. “My ankle twisted when the ground gave way.”
I examine her right ankle, removing her boot. No obvious deformity but already swelling. A sprain, most likely, not a break.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
She tries to stand, pales, and sits back down. “Perhaps?”
“Got it all on camera,” the second cameraman announces, a note of pride in his voice. “Amazing footage.”
I turn to glare at him. “Put that down and help me get her back to level ground.”
We create a makeshift seat with our arms and carry Lena away from the edge, back toward the more stable center of the meadow. The rain continues, soaking through layers of clothing.
“We need to get her dry,” I say to Elliott. “The ridge is out of the question now.”
He checks his waterlogged notes. “We can’t fall behind schedule. Perhaps she could rest at camp while we?—”
“No one’s splitting up,” I state. “And we’re not making the ridge today. Not in this weather, not with her injured.”
Elliott looks ready to argue, then sighs. “What do you suggest? ”
I assess our surroundings, calculating. “There’s an old Forest Service cabin about two miles from here. Basic shelter, woodstove. We can reach it before dark if we go now.”
Lena looks down at her ankle, her expression full of doubt. “Two miles?”
“I’ll help you,” I say.
We fashion a quick compression wrap for her ankle using an elastic bandage from my first aid kit. Rain has plastered her hair to her face, water running in tracks down her cheeks. Despite everything, she manages a determined nod when I ask if she’s ready.
With her arm around my shoulders and mine supporting her waist, we begin the slow journey toward the cabin.
The crew follows, equipment protected as best they can manage, spirits dampened by the weather and change of plans.
Progress is painfully slow. Lena tries to hide her discomfort, but each step on uneven ground brings a sharp intake of breath.
The rain shows no sign of letting up, the temperature dropping as afternoon progresses.
What should have been a forty-minute hike stretches to two hours.
When we finally hit the clearing with the small log structure tucked in the pines, the tension in my gut eases a fraction. The cabin stands weathered but solid, its metal roof keeping out the rain.
“Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton,” Lena says as we approach.
“Better than a tent in this weather,” I say.
The door creaks open to reveal a simple one-room shelter—wooden floor, small window, cast iron woodstove in the corner. Dusty but dry. The crew files in behind us, equipment cases creating an obstacle course in the limited space.
“Home sweet home,” Elliott says, assessing our cramped accommodations. “Can we get a fire going?”
I ease Lena onto a bench along the wall, then check the woodstove. “Wood’s here, but it’ll be damp. Might take time to catch.”
While the crew organizes their gear, I focus on creating a fire. The cabin grows crowded as we all shed wet outer layers, hanging them from every available projection. Soon a thin line of smoke curls from the stovepipe, promising warmth.